Bed, Wonderful Bed!

Now this would not have been a problem had it been a weekend. But it was,
in fact, a weekday. A school day (a Monday, actually).

No one noticed right away. Snape often missed breakfast at the head table.
His first class wasn't surprised to find him not there waiting for them: they
were used to his charging into the class in hopes (so they all believed, and
not just the younger students) of catching them doing something that they
oughtn't.

So they unpacked their books, their scrolls and their quills in preparation and
waited. And waited. And waited.

It was a double period and the third year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs
fidgeted and muttered until, after an hour, one brave soul dared to look out
into the hallway (fully expecting to find their Potions professor was out there,
waiting to spring on them).

There was no one there.

With more courage and audacity one would expect from a Hufflepuff (whose
courage and audacity are much underestimated), the student cautiously
made her way up the dungeon hallway, into the main hallway and finally, not
knowing what else to do, found her way to the Library and Madam Pince.

"Peasbottom! Why aren't you in class? Potions, isn't it?"

Sighing with relief, Peasbottom informed Madam Pince of the abnormal
situation she and her classmates found themselves in.

With an expression that made it obvious Madam Pince did not actually
believe Peasbottom (Hufflepuff though she might be), the Librarian charged
down to the dungeon classroom, the student rushing to keep up with her,
and pushed open the door fully expecting to find Severus Snape tearing a
strip off his students.

Instead there were sighs of relief and one or two audible "Thank Merlin!"

"Well, that's never happened," muttered Pince as she took it upon herself to
dismiss the students to the Library where they were to occupy themselves
with some work from another course (though she expected that gossip
would be the first matter dealt with).

Slightly worried, she checked Snape's office to find it minus one Potions
instructor. She cautiously approached his personal lab, wary of interrupting
some delicate work (and awakening his temper). That, if anything, would
explain his absence from the classroom.

Nothing.

No one.

Just a spotless lab that was begging to be used.

Heart beating rapidly, Madam Pince quickly made her way to the gargoyle at
the foot of the stairs to the Headmaster's office.

"He's probably in the supply room. Did you check there?" asked
Dumbledore. He wasn't worried as he felt no reason to be. Since the end of
Voldemort through the combined efforts of the Order of the Phoenix and a
team made up of Gryffindors and Slytherins, Snape had experienced no
more summonses via the Dark Mark.

"All this time? He was supposed to have been in class over an hour ago."

Dumbledore frowned. He usually knew if one of his staff was in any kind of
trouble (which fact was known to very few as the Headmaster was a firm
believer in privacy, unless it was his Potions instructor). He wasn't picking
up any such feelings about Severus Snape.

Still, with Madam Pince at his side, he went down to the supply room, hoping
that they wouldn't find his Potions instructor lying unconscious on the floor.
There were some spells that, if performed by some student, Dumbledore
might not have picked up. The War was over, but not all feelings had been
of gratitude. Snape's role as a spy for the Order was now well-known.

The Headmaster waved "Lumos!" with some wariness but once more there
was nothing out of the ordinary to be found.

"Where could he be?" murmured Madam Pince, now seriously worried about
her colleague.

"Did you check his rooms?"

Madam Pince allowed her eyebrows to answer for her. One did not intrude
on the Potion Master's personal quarters. And if one tried, the wards he'd
set up would see to it that there would be no second attempt.

"Yes, of course," muttered Dumbledore. "Damn the man and his paranoia!"

Madam Pince didn't dignify that with a comment (but mentally she thanked
the wizard's paranoia: it was what had finally allowed them to clue into
Voldemort's weakness and find a way to employ it against the Dark Lord).

It took Dumbledore some time to unward the entrance to Snape's rooms. In
spite of repeated requests and even warnings, Snape never gave out the
words which permitted him easy access in and out of his rooms.

Meanwhile, the whole school had learnt of Snape's disappearance. The third
year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs had (as Madam Pince had thought) told the
fifth year Gryffindors, who were in the Library, researching material for their
upcoming Transfiguration O.W.L. They in turn had mentioned it to Professor
McGonagall (who, on making her way down to the dungeons, mentioned it to
Professor Binns, who was more than pleased to have some news to report to
the other members of the staff, who were in the Staff Room taking mid-
morning tea).

Meanwhile the students' own communication network had spread it through
the school until even the house elves knew something was up.

By the time the last ward was down, Dumbledore had an audience made up
of some of his staff, a variety of the braver seventh years (McGonagall's
glare had very little effect on students who had survived battle), and even a
house elf (Dobby, of course), who was hiding behind a pillar.

Dumbledore opened the door to Snape's sitting room and, when some of the
others indicated they were following him, he quietly yet <i/>firmly</i> shut
the door in their faces. If there was something wrong with Snape,
Dumbledore knew him well enough to know that, though Snape might
forgive this invasion of his quarters, he would never forgive an audience
greater than one.

No one in the sitting room. There was a book open on the table next to
Snape's favourite armchair. There was a glass that had held, if
Dumbledore's nose wasn't mistaken, an excellent cognac not more than
some twelve hours previously.

But no Potions Master.

Cautiously (now more worried than he cared to admit, even to himself),
Dumbledore, wand in hand ready to be used, made his way to the
bedchamber door on silent, slippered feet.

With exaggerated care, he turned the handle and slowly pushed the door
open, thankful for house elves who were forever maintaining the hinges of
all doors in Hogwarts.

Though the room was dark, there was a soft light coming from the open door
of the adjoining bathroom. Dumbledore shook his head to think that his
powerful Potions Master needed a night light. All things considered, keeping
in mind all that they had seen and done during the last months of the War, a
night light was a pretty innocuous method of dealing with nightmares.
(Merlin knew, there were some students who still could not sleep with the
lights off.)

Again, very carefully, Dumbledore opened the bathroom door a little more,
allowing more light to spill out into the bedroom, gradually casting long
shadows that led Dumbledore to the bed.

With a slight release of air, Dumbledore noted the lump in the bed that could
only be, he hoped, Severus Snape.

Having located the wizard, it was now time to see what had prevented him
from holding morning class. Even with the War raging around them, Snape
had supported Dumbledore in maintaining as normal a schedule in the school
as possible. He had reluctantly agreed that new combatants could not
replace those lost if training did not continue. (Moreover, Dumbledore had
kept pointing out, a regular schedule helped the younger students deal with
what was going on beyond Hogwarts' walls and wards.) When Snape himself
had not been available to conduct his classes, either Granger or Malfoy had
taken over for him, were they themselves not required elsewhere.

Wand ready for action, the Headmaster gingerly grabbed the top of the
bedclothes and slowly began revealing what they hid.

It took him several moments to come to the conclusion that his Potions
instructor was asleep, a small snore revealing that he was breathing
regularly. Still, Dumbledore needed to know what was wrong with Snape.
After all, in the sixteen years the wizard had been a member of the staff, he
had never ever once slept in.

"Severus." Dumbledore began in a quiet voice, speaking more loudly with
each repetition of the Potions instructor's name. "Severus. Severus!"

He reached over and shook a boney shoulder and his only reward was a
series of snores interspersed with snorts.

"Severus! Wake up!" Dumbledore was now seriously worried. The Snape
he knew was a light sleeper.

"Wha...?"

Finally! Dumbledore smiled happily at the man who turned to face him, eyes
heavy with sleep.

"Albus?" But Snape said no more as his face was split with a large yawn.

"Are you all right, Severus?"

The man grimaced, a hand coming out from under the nightclothes to rub at
his face. "Why shouldn't I be?"

Snape's hand dropped and he squinted up at the Headmaster. "Tired.
Decided to sleep in this morning," he muttered, pulling the bedclothes out of
the Headmaster's hand and back over him. "Tell Granger to take over. Or if
she can't, Draco."

And with that, Snape nestled into his cocoon of bedclothes and went back to
sleep.

Mouth open, Dumbledore stood by the bed and listened to the once more
rhythmic snores emanating from his Potions instructor. Stunned by Snape's
behaviour, he could do nothing more than leave the room, closing the door
behind him. In the sitting room, he did just that: sat in Snape's chair and
took the time to think.

The War had been hard on them: the long hours, the additional worry about
maintaining protection for the students. The need to find Voldemort's soft
underbelly. Far too much had depended on two men: Potter and Snape.

After it was over, Potter had had wind-down time. The Weasleys had
spirited him off to the Burrow where Molly had fussed over him, held him
when he'd needed to weep and had fed him when he'd had no appetite. A
month of Molly's love and attention, and Potter had been back at school,
maybe changed forever, but able to deal with the everyday requirements of
a student in his seventh year.

Snape, on the other hand, had gone from spying to fighting to bearing
witness at the many trials of the Death Eaters who had survived. And he'd
continued teaching during that time, if not in the classroom himself, then
organizing Granger and Malfoy to replace him at any moment's notice.
There had been no Molly in his life, even had he permitted her or anyone to
play that role.

Dumbledore nodded to himself. If his Potions instructor needed a day to
himself, well, so be it! He'd assign a house elf to check up on him, to see to
it that there was a meal waiting for him when Severus did wake up.

The problem resolved, Dumbledore went out to face those waiting to find out
what was going on.

And that might have been the end of it, except that the next morning, one of
the first year Gryffindors, accompanied by a Slytherin classmate, knocked on
the Transfiguration classroom, interrupting Professor McGonagall's first class
of the day, with the news that, once more, their Potions instructor had not
shown up.

"And he didn't appear in the common room last evening. He always does,"
explained the worried Slytherin, "since the end of the War. Just to see that
we're all right."

McGonagall sent the two students back to their classmates with orders for
them to stop by Professor Flitwick's classroom and ask if either Granger or
Malfoy could fill in for the absent Snape.

It was a measure of the students' worry that she heard no squabbling as to
which one of the older students should be asked as they rushed off to
Charms.

"Severus!" Dumbledore used his most authoritative tones as he once more
woke his Potions instructor.

Snape rolled over slowly, yawning and, this time, not bothering to cover up
his mouth. He blinked up at the Headmaster, as if he had to think about
who the wizard was.

"Oh. Albus," he yawned a second time, this time his hand nearly making it
to his mouth before dropping back onto the counterpane. " Is it important?"

(Dumbledore admitted much later to Minerva McGonagall that he had been
rather taken aback by the disinterest in Snape's voice.)

"Is it important?" Dumbledore repeated. "Severus! This is the second
morning that you've missed your first class." Concerned, the Headmaster
sat on the edge of the bed.

Now, such a liberty should have garnered some kind of response from
Snape. The man had almost a phobia about having his personal space
invaded. But, apart from another yawn, quickly caught, nothing. Not a
grimace, not a pointed look, not even a single hint of recoil.

"Severus, dear boy, what is the matter?" Dumbledore was now truly
worried.

Snape managed a shrug, less elegant than his usual as he was lying back
against the pillows. "Nothing," he muttered, obviously fighting yet another
yawn. "Just need some sleep." He opened an eye and glared at the
Headmaster. "Surely I am entitled to that at the very least."

"Certainly, dear boy." Dumbledore didn't quite believe Snape (but was more
than willing to grasp at any straw handed him). "Not a problem. In fact," he
rose to his feet, "why don't you just take the rest of the week off. Miss
Granger and Mr. Malfoy seem to be having no great difficulties handling your
classes as well as their own work. Yes, that's it. Take the rest of the
week..."

But he might as well have saved his breath: Snape had rolled over once
more and was already softly snoring.

"I tell you, Minerva," Poppy Pomfrey confided to her over tea that evening,
"I was as nervous as though I were checking out the condition of some
injured mountain troll. Albus, in the sitting room, as though he thought I
might need back-up in case of attack. Me, tip-toeing into Severus's holy of
holies, ready to run out if he woke."

"But he's all right, isn't he?" Minerva asked, more worried about Snape than
she had ever been for him during the War. There were so many who were
only now permitting themselves to admit to how damaged they had been by
war wounds.

"Yes. Nothing out of the norm. In fact, his heartbeat is slower than it's ever
been when I examined him in the past. No, Minerva, if I had to judge, I
would say that all those many years – if not decades! – of sleeping badly
have finally caught up with Severus Snape."

She leaned forward to confide, "I've given the house elves a tonic to slip into
his food. They tell me that they leave the food trays by his bedside and
that, when they go collect, the dishes are usually cleaned off. So he's
eating."

And that, everyone thought, was that. Severus Snape would catch up on his
sleep and return to his classes come the next week.

But he didn't.

Draco found Hermione weeping silently in the small alcove in the Library she
had long ago claimed as her own.

He dropped into the chair that had become his since the start of the War.
(Then, whenever Snape had been needed elsewhere, thereby requiring a
replacement, Draco and Hermione would meet to go over Snape's notes for
teaching those particular classes.) "What's wrong? Has Timmons blown up
another cauldron? Merlin, if Severus thought Longbottom stupid..."

Hermione only sobbed a little louder.

Draco leaned forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Hermione?"

She blew her nose in an overlarge handkerchief and wiped her eyes before
lifting her head to look at the Slytherin who had denied his heritage to
become an ally and then a friend.

"I went down to see Professor Snape, this morning, before breakfast, to
bring him up to date on what we've covered and..."

"And?" Draco squeezed her hand and was surprised (and oh! so pleased!)
when she turned up her hand to grasp his.

"And he was still in bed, Draco."

Draco nodded. He'd been called out of History to deal with the second year
classes that morning.

"And...and when I told him I was there to..." Her handkerchief was called
into duty once more as Hermione tried to find the words she needed. Draco
had never seen her so emotional. Keeping her hand tightly clasped in his,
he came around the table to kneel at her feet, looking up into her reddened
eyes.

"Hermione, was he mean to you?" There were limits to his tolerance for his
Head of House. It didn't bother him that Snape had been a Death Eater,
that he had once happily fulfilled the functions of the role. All that was in the
past. So much so that his example had served as the model that Draco had
followed, denying his parents' wishes that he join them and fight on the side
of the Dark. He cared more for the man than for his own family but if he
had hurt his Hermione...(not that she was his, but...)

Hermione sniffed and leaned forward, resting her forehead against his. "Oh,
Draco, he told me he...<i/>didn't care</i>! Not a <i/>fig</i> about
<i/>Potions</i> or what we were doing in his classes! That all he wanted
was to be left alone so that he could get some decent,
<i/>uninterrupted</i> sleep! And then he did just that, went back to sleep.
<i/>Oh, Draco!</i>"

And she slipped her head off his to rest it against his shoulder where she
wept almost unconsolably. Except that Draco did think it his duty to console
her, which he finally did, resting against a lower stack, Hermione in his arms,
his lips wiping the tears off her face. Off her cheeks and, yes, even off her
lips. For which Hermione seemed very appreciative and even thankful as her
lips responded, with a certain hesitancy at first, and then with much more
enthusiasm.

(Eventually, they named their first son Draconis Severus.)

Dumbledore had been less sympathetic when Miss Granger had reported
what Snape had said. One week off in the middle of an important term was
one thing, but now it seemed as though given an inch (or 2.5 centimeters, if
preferred), his Potions instructor was trying to take a mile (or 1.6
kilometres).

He went down into the dungeons, ready to deal with this insubordination
when he discovered that Snape had indeed gotten out of bed: long enough
to change the wards on his doors. (All of his doors. And windows, too.)

Only the house elves had the ability to enter Snape's quarters via house elf
magic and there was no way, Dumbledore knew, that Snape would reveal
the new passwords to them.

"Damn him!"

Minerva McGonagall looked shocked to hear such language coming out of the
Headmaster's mouth, especially since they had an audience composed of
anyone daring enough to follow the obviously irritated Headmaster. (Mind,
since the War, there were more than not among the older students who had
the wherewithal to dare.) She turned and glared, rather effectively, at the
titters that quickly died out.

Oh, dear, thought Minerva. This was not good. There was no place in the
Castle that was denied its headmaster. Albus had allowed Severus his wards
because he understood the paranoia of the man (and who could not, all
things considered) and his desire for protection and security. And though it
was a time-consuming affair for Albus to deward Severus's doors, he had
always been able to do so.

Now it seemed not.

And Albus was not taking it well.

"I slipped a calming potion into his tea," Poppy sighed. Those convened for
a special meeting of staff and selected concerned students (Well, it was hard
to keep them out and, besides, the Twins' ‘Extendable Ears' were best sellers
in the school, in spite of Filch's attempts to confiscate them. Better to have
a few representatives the Deputy Headmistress could trust than...) nodded
and sighed along with her.

"I'm surprised the Castle has allowed Severus to do such a thing," Professor
Binns said, in a voice that was actually non-monotonal (much to the
students' surprise, who had never heard so much emotion from the ghostly
professor).

"Do we then assume that it must agree with him?" Draco (representing
Slytherin) was sitting next to Hermione (Gryffindor), their knees touching,
surreptitiously holding hands under the protection of their robes.

Professor Sprout scoffed. "Wouldn't be surprised. Both Severus and the
Castle can be quite cantankerous when it pleases them."

Felicia Diggory (cousin to Cedric and eyes and ears of Hufflepuff at the
meeting) snickered. Muireall Raudri (Ravenclaw) glared at her. Which only
made Felicia giggle a little louder. Once a quiet non-entity, the War had
given the Hufflepuff a daring insouciance that had not been the hallmark of
the House pre-War.

Before wands were pulled out (which happened far too often these days),
Minerva took control of the meeting. "Well, we have a Potions instructor
who refuses to come out of his rooms, let alone his bed. A Headmaster who
is at this moment sleeping off a calming cup of tea. We have classes to
cover..." Here she looked at Draco and Hermione who had been staring into
each other's eyes, obviously unaware of where they were and who was
watching them.

Harry Potter (representing himself) leaned over and kicked the two chairs
apart. Draco's wand was out in a blink as was Hermione's. Harry only rolled
his eyes and gestured, with his head, to the rest of the room. Getting the
message, Hermione, blushing, slipped her wand back in her sleeve and
tugged at Draco's, getting him to sit down once more.

"Will the two of you be able to continue covering Severus's classes for
however long this goes on?" the Deputy Headmistress inquired, in her most
Headmistress voice.

There was a quick, silent exchange between the two and Draco turned to
address the issue. "First to sixth years are no problem. Sevenths need to
be supervised as they work on their N.E.W.T.s project and, since we have to
participate in that ourselves, we will need someone to take that on."

Vector, who had once thought of Potions as a profession, was happy to do
just that, on the condition that it did not conflict with her seventh years'
projects. (There followed several minutes of hectic wrangling of the
schedule but soon it had been modified so that, should Severus Snape
decide to spend the rest of his life in his rooms, Hogwarts would still function
as it should.)

"That still leaves the problem of Albus and the wards," reminded Professor
Flitwick.

"Leave the wards to me," said Harry. "I've got more free time than the
others."

Hermione frowned. She still didn't think that ridding the wizarding world of
Voldemort should have excused Harry from taking his N.E.W.T.s. Handing
him his Wizard Accreditations just like that...well, one never appreciated
things one hadn't worked for, she thought. Draco squeezed her hand in
silent sympathy.

Which is how Harry came to be sitting in a very comfortable armchair,
staring at the Potions instructor's door. Dobby had found him both the chair
and a good-sized table upon which were piled several stacks of books, all
dealing with spells, charms and (or) wards.

Every hour or so, Dobby appeared with a snack or a drink to help Harry in
his studies. Every morning and afternoon, either Flitwick or Madam Pince
would appear to remove the books that had proven unhelpful and to deposit
others they thought might be. Harry always smiled his thanks to them as he
picked up yet another tome to work his way through the index of possible
spells a man with Snape's ability (and thought processes) might use.

"Is he still sleeping?" Harry asked Dobby one day, about two weeks into his
particular studies.

Dobby wrung his hands, unsure of what to say. "Well, Professor eats and
takes baths, but otherwise, he is in bed, usually sleeping when Dobby or
other house elves go in."

Harry nodded and smiled reassuringly at Dobby, who was always nervous
when asked to reveal anything house elves considered to be sacrosanct
information (which was why Harry had waited two weeks to ask him).

Those first days, the Headmaster had also appeared several times a day to
inquire how Harry's research was coming along. It had taken a rather
pointed comment from Harry (the duel with Voldemort had destroyed
whatever fear of authority Harry had harboured) to make the Headmaster
understand that these constant interruptions were not helping. Being in the
vicinity at that particular moment, Minerva McGonagall found it politic to
happen upon several matters that required Albus's presence and attention
elsewhere.

Having blasted one powerful wizard into another dimension, she didn't think
that Harry might baulk at doing it to another.

(In fact, she was quite wrong about that. Harry did have some kind feelings
for the Headmaster. Now, the Minister for Magic was a quite different case.
If Cornelius Fudge had had his way – which he hadn't as Dumbledore had
insisted that, official Wizard or not, Harry still had studies to complete –
Harry would be doing the circuit, Fudge at his right hand, associating himself
with the Boy Who Killed What's His Name in time for the next election.)

So Harry arrived at his post every morning after a hearty breakfast, having
caught up on the gossip of the day both in Hogwarts (Ron had been caught
with Susan Bones in the rose bushes by Dumbledore, who had not hesitated
in the least to blow said rose bush to smithereens) and without (according to
the <i/>Daily Prophet</i>, Harry Potter was spending his time in Hogwarts
having his every little desire catered to by the females of, depending on the
day, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, or even those on staff. "If
only," Harry moaned as Ginny tossed a roll at his head).

He read the latest tome (more and more arcane as the days went by) that
had been put on the table and would occasionally (and rather disparagingly)
try out a few of the spells. Never with any success.

"I never knew you were capable of such patience," admitted Ron, one
evening, as he sat on a couch in the Gryffindor common room, Miss Bones
curled up in his lap, her tongue mapping out the contours of his ear. (Their
first child, a girl, was to be called Henrietta (for Harry) Lorna. None of their
five daughters ever bore the name Hermione, for obvious reasons.)

"It's amazing what war teaches one," agreed Harry.
What it had taught Harry was that often solutions existed right under one's
nose, overlooked because of their simplicity. All it had taken was one
"Abracadabra", a cliché in so many fairy tales, to rid this world of Voldemort
and his Death Eaters.

"After all," Snape had scoffed, "the Killing Curse had to come from
somewhere. Makes sense that some modification had to occur over time.
So, instead of making the recipient disappear into Merlin knows where, the
new version simply killed him."

So now, Harry sat in his chair and tried hard to think of something that was
all too obvious and simple to one Severus Snape that he would have used as
his password.

He had quickly concluded that the books were, of course, of no help. Their
contents were far too sophisticated for Snape to have used. But they did
make it seem that he was hard at work. Which he was (well, they were
interesting to read), but not as the others thought him to be.

Oh, he had an idea but, frankly, was afraid to try it out for fear of being
wrong.

"Is the professor still sleeping his time away?" he asked Dobby one day,
about three weeks into his supposed studies.

Dobby hopped from one foot to the other. He sighed, wrung his hands,
tugged at his ears. Harry pretended to be engrossed by his reading, not to
be watching as he knew Dobby was obviously conflicted (a sure sign that he
had been given clothes as unfreed house elves would never have been so
bothered in answering a direct question).

"Harry Potter knows the Professor is tired."

Harry smiled to himself: Dobby was still enough of a house elf to try and
produce an acceptable answer.

"Yes, Dobby," he turned the page, seemingly taken by some new discovery,
"but surely after five weeks, the professor must be doing something other
than sleeping, eating and taking baths."

"They be <i/>long</i> baths, Harry Potter, sir."

Harry smiled at the nervous elf. "I'm sure they are, Dobby. But even in a
bathtub, one can read, or sometimes write."

Dobby thought a moment then nodded. Harry guessed this was safe
grounds in the elf's mind. "Oh, yes, Harry Potter. The professor is reading
journals all the time in the bath. He has Dobby bring him pile after pile from
his shelves."

Harry nodded encouragingly, but Dobby must have felt he'd revealed enough
for he disappeared.

Harry sat back in his chair. So Severus was catching up on years of back-
reading. Warded safely away in his rooms, no classes to hold, no essays to
correct, no detentions to supervise, no meetings to attend, no school
potions to brew, no longer needing to spy, to put his life on the line, no...

Harry grinned.

He dawdled another week, pretending to work on the wards. In fact, he was
accumulating a wealth of useful information vis-à-vis spells, charms and
wards that he otherwise would never have acquired. He did think that this
knowledge might well be a good addition to his résumé, supplementing the
rather successful teaching experiences he'd had with the DA (aka
Dumbledore's Army). After all, there were no more Dark Wizards that he
knew of that needed dealing with. (And if there were, well, that would be
some other poor sap's problem, not his.)

Still, there came the day when he spoke the obvious and simple and
watched as the door to Snape's quarters clicked open as the ward and lock
released. Slipping his wand into his sleeve, he checked to make certain he
was truly alone. Other than Dobby (who would not go squealing on him), he
no longer had any visitors while he worked.

He pushed the door open and, for the first time in his life, entered the
Potions Master's private rooms. His sanctuary against the world.

With great care, Harry closed the door behind him, listening for the small
sound that would indicate both latch and ward had caught.

He walked on quiet yet sure feet to the partially opened door that, when he
pushed it aside, revealed a large canopied bed with bed curtains not in
Slytherin green or silver, nor vampiric black, but a fairly cheerful (all things
considered, keeping this particular man in mind) deep red-brown (not a
Gryffindor red) that gave the room a certain warmth.

Harry walked over to the bedpost where the curtains were draped back and
leaned a shoulder on it (trying for sophisticated non-chalance) as he perused
the man lying in the bed.

Snape was on his back, arms crossed under his head, staring up at the
canopy. He was wearing a plain, white nightshirt.

Harry cocked his head and smiled, hoping that would hide his nervousness.
"Caught up on your reading, have you?"

The black eyes never left the fold they were staring at. "Pretty much."

"Decided what you're going to do?"

The eyes didn't move. "What makes you think I'm going to do anything
other than what I've been doing?"

Harry sat on the edge of the bed, his hand playing with the folded
counterpane. "Well, you told Hermione that you didn't care a fig about
Potions. So I'm assuming that you've had enough of teaching that."

The eyes didn't move to him. "Ten points for Gryffindor."

Harry choked on his laughter. "And definitely not remaining at Hogwarts."

The eyes moved to him.

"You've just assigned points to Gryffindor. I thought you'd prefer to die than
do that."

Snape scoffed and went back to staring at the canopy.

"Are you enjoying your time in bed?" Harry asked, very casually, as his
hand began to unclasp the frogs on his wizard's robe.

Snape shrugged. "I was tired."

"I understand." Harry's sympathy was sincere. He stood and allowed the
robe to slip to the floor. He caught Snape's eyes as they flickered his way
and held them as he placed his wand on the night table, next to Snape's.
His hand went to the top of his shirt and slowly, but not all that teasingly
(because he really wasn't that certain of himself) , he undid the buttons. He
tossed the shirt onto a nearby stack of Dark Arts journals.

He looked at them for a moment then cocked his head, a small smile on his
face. "Durmstrang?"

Snape shook his head. "Milano."

Harry thought aloud as his hands went to the placket on his trousers.
"Warm there." He undid the first button. "Good red wine," the second, "I
understand from Zabini." The third. "Good food." The fourth. "Milano
sounds like a good choice." The last.

He pushed the trousers down and stepped out of them at the same time as
he toed off his trainers. He walked out of the pile, leaned over and pulled off
his socks, putting a little extra wiggle into his arse as he did so.

He straightened and tugged down the knit boxers he'd stolen from Ron.
(Susan Bones was not fond of y-fronts.) The movement wasn't all that
smooth as his hardening cock interfered with the gesture.

Not that Harry expected Snape minded all that much: his eyes were fixed on
his groin and, from the expression on his face, the Potions (soon to be
DADA) instructor didn't seem to be all that disappointed.

As Harry went to turn down the counterpane so that he could join Snape in
bed, a hand stopped him.

"What makes you think that I like having my space invaded this way, Mr.
Potter?"

Harry smiled, stooped and claimed his lover's mouth. When he was certain
that it was well kissed, he mouthed his way to Snape's ear.

"In that case, you shouldn't have used the passwords you did." He slipped
into the bed and rummaged under the covers until he had a good grip on
Snape's nightshirt. He pulled it off the man as he laughed. "<i/>Severus
Snape loves Harry Potter.</i>" Between kisses he added, "Tends to give
one ideas, you know."